


Finally ... the Dawn

by Hope_Austen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dealing with John's injury, Dealing with John's scars, Dealing with Sherlock's scars, Dealing with Sherlock's torture, Emotional Rollercoaster, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Forgiveness, Healing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John's injury, John's military service, Love, Lust, M/M, Mention of Mary shooting Sherlock, Mention of Moriarty's death, Mentioned Abuse, Mentioned bullying, Physical and emotional wounds, Porn Without Plot, Sherlock's torture, Smut, WARNING: triggers within the story; please heed tags, mention of divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Austen/pseuds/Hope_Austen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Case?” John inquired, knowing full well that it was.</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock distractedly replied as his thumb swiftly tapped the mobile’s keys.</p><p>“Look, Sherlock, we can wait—” John started to pull away, but then stopped as he watched Sherlock do something he’d never seen the man do before when faced with a case.</p><p>Sherlock turned off his phone, tossed it onto his chair and grasped John’s waist to pull him closer. He then planted a soft kiss to his blogger’s forehead.</p><p>“No, John,” he said quietly. “We’ve waited long enough.”<br/>---</p><p>This is a story about Sherlock and John's first time. However, it's not a fluffy-feel-good piece, but rather one that is about the deep love between two physically and emotionally scarred people. Although I've tried to tag possible triggers, there may be some that I missed. Please heed the tags and warning. Thank you.<br/>---</p><p>"Finally ... the Dawn" can be read as a stand-alone or as an epilogue to my first work “John's Decision.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally ... the Dawn

As the dawn peeked its way through the windows of 221B, John and Sherlock sat knee-to-knee on the edges of their chairs, eyes closed, foreheads together in the soft, morning light. Wandering hands were gently petting silky fabric and jumper-clad forearms. Warm, soft breaths intertwined with each other as lips chastely brushed lips, sharp jaws and stubbled cheeks. There hadn’t been a proper kiss … yet. But that was fine because both Sherlock and John needed time to soak in the essence of the other, making sure that this was in fact reality and not just a dream that would dissipate and leave them reeling in loneliness.

They were both exhausted from the waves they’d been riding the past 72 hours, each valley a hellish descent, each peak a hope-filled respite. Moriarty was finally dead, John’s divorce was final and Sherlock and John had reunited and declared their love for one another. It was truly time for at least a kip after all they’d experienced. But nothing, not even their bodies’ craving for sleep, could stop them from wanting to explore what came next in this emotionally and mentally euphoric state in which they found themselves.

Eventually, their hands stilled and their hearts calmed in time with one another and a rhythmic, pulsing duet was established. As if on cue, they both opened their eyes. The depth of love and understanding that silently passed between them was captured in the deeply focused pools of blue that they both possessed. These shared moments were theirs and theirs alone now, and they both took time to savor every loving thought that passed unspoken between them.

Finally, as John’s face formed a contented grin, Sherlock’s mirrored it and he slowly stood up, pulling the other man to his feet. Then, before he lost command of the moment, Sherlock bent his neck slightly downward while tipping John’s chin upward and connected their lips in a soft, but urgent way.

Sherlock had wondered what the experience of kissing John Watson would feel like; afterall, the detective was never satisfied with just theory. He found that the texture and smooth motion of John’s lips on his own was quite a mind-startling sensation. Every surge of John’s mouth fed the addict in Sherlock and he found himself wanting more, in fact, craving more with each second that passed. But it wasn’t just the kiss itself that had Sherlock’s normally focused mind in a spin. What he hadn’t counted on was the effect that the emotion behind the kiss had on him. Kissing someone was physiological. Kissing someone you love and knowing they return that love, well … that’s something much more. As the kiss deepened, Sherlock noted everything from the purring sounds John’s throat was making and the feel of John’s jaws working Sherlock’s mouth open, to the unique and calming scent of, well … John. It was a maelstrom, pulling Sherlock deeper and deeper; yet, he felt no fear of drowning.

John, too, was reveling in the sensory overload as his tongue slowly stroked Sherlock’s and he tasted the scotch his flatmate had been sipping previously. John’s hands touched solid chest muscles through Sherlock’s tight, silky shirt and he could feel Sherlock’s now-elevated heart rate. But perhaps the best thing about kissing Sherlock Holmes was the _want_ that John could sense in him through the simple kiss. It was like two dancers moving in tandem, with John taking the lead now, moving gracefully, but with purpose. When John’s mouth moved one way, Sherlock’s matched the movement. If John’s lips hinted at a release, Sherlock’s lips gently enticed them to stay. Sherlock’s want and need of John only served as continued affirmation that this was not some mere dream John had concocted in his brain, but a real-life happening of which he was a blissful participant.

As their lips continued on this new adventure, Sherlock’s hands began their own explorations, making their way to John’s back. He gently swirled his palms in circles and finally planted them near John’s hips in a way that anchored Sherlock, which was a necessity since he felt like a balloon ready to float away.

John’s hands stilled, too, once they finished petting the soft curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck. His lips broke from Sherlock’s, but softly planted a new trail of kisses at the corner of the detective’s swollen mouth, his jawline, and down his neck. With every kiss, Sherlock’s hands clenched John’s jumper a little tighter and his breath caught until John’s route ended at the collarbone, at which point Sherlock began releasing progressively louder moans that only spurred John on further. John’s mouth gently sucked Sherlock’s skin, making wet, popping noises as it painted a small, purple masterpiece onto the pale, white canvass.

Finally, Sherlock bent his head forward and turned to face John’s neck, returning the favor. However, he added his own twist, adding small bites that caused John to gasp “Oh, God, yes” and hold onto Sherlock even tighter. When the detective-turned-snogger was satisfied with the work he’d completed on his partner’s neck, his lips released their prey and the two men held still for a moment; faces touched cheek to cheek; quick, uneven, hot breaths blew past each other’s ears.

“John,” Sherlock panted.

“Yeah,” John barely managed.

“I - … I think we need to move this to the bedroom.”

“Yes … Good … That would be— … good.”

They pulled back slightly and looked at each other. Their dark-pupiled eyes cast almost magical spells, and neither man wanted to be the first to look away. Suddenly, Sherlock’s mobile made a buzzing noise, breaking the trance and causing both of them to blink as their senses took hold of them again. It was a startling sound at the moment, seeing as how the phone had been silent for the past several days thanks to Mycroft’s blocking of all of Sherlock’s incoming texts and calls while the business with Moriarty was being concluded. Sherlock glanced at his mobile.

“Who is it?” John asked, as his stomach sank a little.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answered as he began to punch out a text.

“Case?” John inquired, knowing full well that it was.

“Yes,” Sherlock distractedly replied as his thumb swiftly tapped the mobile’s keys.

“Look, Sherlock, we can wait—” John started to pull away, but then stopped as he watched Sherlock do something he’d never seen the man do before when faced with a case.

Sherlock turned off his phone, tossed it onto his chair and grasped John’s waist to pull him closer. He then planted a soft kiss to his blogger’s forehead.

“No, John,” he said quietly. “We’ve waited long enough.”

John looked at Sherlock’s face, where a genuine, soft smile had taken form, and could feel his own amazement turn to fondness as his eyes took in the love of his life.

Finally, Sherlock let go of John’s waist, clasped his hand, and led him down the hallway to the bedroom, looking back, as if to double check that John was still okay with this progression. John was more than okay with how things were going, allowing himself to be pulled along, not really sure if his feet were touching the floor … and not really caring. With the fond look Sherlock gave him, John returned a besotted, school-boy grin … (again) not really caring. Throughout the short journey to the bedroom, it was a dazed yet exhilarating feeling John experienced. The Work had always come first and he had always accepted his silver medalist place with Sherlock. But today, well … today, John and their relationship were the priority … and it was all gold.

As they crossed the bedroom door’s threshold and stepped into Sherlock’s room, John could feel a lump developing in his throat. He’d thought about this moment … how it might happen … what he would do … what Sherlock would look like … but as in many of life’s situations, the reality proved to be much more anxiety-provoking than the wishful thinking had been. The giddiness of the previous few seconds was quickly replaced by nervousness and insecurity. But suddenly John felt Sherlock’s grasp tighten around his hand. _Was Sherlock nervous, too?_ The younger man stopped and turned around, and the vulnerability that shown in his face … his eyes … confirmed it.

John suddenly forgot about his own nervousness and only wished to quell Sherlock’s. He reached up, and placed his free hand on his partner’s cheek, giving Sherlock a confident, tight-lipped smile. Sherlock’s shoulders visibly released and he pulled John’s waist forward so that the two of them were chest to chest.

“Hey,” John whispered. “You, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, never taking his eyes off of John’s.

“We don’t have to do anything right now, you know,” John continued. “We can just lie on the bed together or sleep, or—“

“John,” Sherlock interrupted as a smirk began to form. He leaned in a little toward the other man’s face and whispered, “It’s all fine.”

John chuckled, shaking his head slightly, then quickly pulled Sherlock into a lip-locking kiss.

First hurdle of nerves … cleared. But … there would be more ahead.

The heat of the kiss increased and the couple found themselves clumsily making their way to sitting positions on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, their bodies continuing to touch, their lips still moving in unison. Finally, Sherlock’s hands, which had been groping every inch of John’s jumper, began peeling the woolen barrier slowly up the man’s body. The two of them broke their kiss momentarily so Sherlock could free it from John’s upper body, and threw the article of clothing with a flourish to the far end of the room. Then, like a gasping fish out of water, John’s mouth closed over Sherlock’s and they were sharing breath like it was a matter of survival.

Now that John’s jumper was removed, Sherlock’s hands were free to explore the front of John’s button-down. He wiped over the fabric, feeling John’s pectoral muscles, which still had some definition, despite the fact that John was a little less active than in his rugby days. He continued his exploration, sliding both hands down the sides of John’s rib cage, to which the older man squirmed a little. Sherlock then made his way back up to the small patch of skin revealing itself at the top of the shirt. Slowly, Sherlock’s hands began to work to undo the first button and John caught his breath, momentarily halting the kiss. John panted into Sherlock’s mouth, trying to manage his breathing as he grasped the detective’s waist tightly.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was making a valiant effort of employing his own technique to restore normal breathing as he continued freeing the button from its fabric cage. He then moved his fingers downward toward the next two buttons, making a gentle swipe with his thumb down John’s sternum in the process and causing a slight shudder in the doctor. Sherlock would stop if he felt John was truly in distress, but his partner’s breathing had evened out as he now leaned his forehead on Sherlock’s lips. His grip on Sherlock’s waist had eased a little prompting the younger man to continue his descent down the front of his partner’s shirt, unfastening each button with care as if they were made of crystal and could break with a single touch.

While Sherlock was busy stripping John of his clothing, the former army captain’s brain had gone from panic at the first realization of what Sherlock was doing, to fear as he knew what he would be forced to reveal as soon as the fabric slipped off his shoulder, to calm as he remembered whose hands were lovingly upon him. As Sherlock’s hands came to the end of their journey, John opened his eyes and looked up into his partner’s laser blues. Only one word filled his mind at that moment—trust. John took Sherlock’s roaming hands and placed them in Sherlock’s lap, then looked down to pull his own shirt out from where it was being held hostage at his waistline. There were two more buttons that John unfastened, along with the buttons at his wrists.

All the while, Sherlock sat with hands folded in his lap, like a small boy sitting obediently in a church pew, observing, cataloging and making mental notes of what was being played out before him. Sherlock’s eyes went wide as John looked up at the man he loved and eased the shirt off his own shoulders, allowing it to slide down his arms and rest on the mattress behind him. Sherlock could hardly breathe. His eyes scanned every pore, freckle and hair on John’s chest and it was the most stunning sight he had ever seen.

His gaze then made the inevitable journey to John’s shoulder where an army battle scar stood at attention. It looked like a collection of gnarled tree roots, the healing process obviously impeded by infection. To anyone else, it would have caused a flinch or furled brow at least … or averted eyes at most. But Sherlock’s eyes were unblinkable and his expression was unwavering. He was studying it like a student at university who was preparing for a test. Every connection where wrinkled skin bonded with the smooth layer, every bump and valley and every slight discoloration found its way to John’s room in Sherlock’s Mind Palace. But Sherlock wasn’t the only one who was studying.

John’s wide-eyed stare searched his partner’s face waiting for some sort of reaction that he could live with. Suddenly, Sherlock, becoming aware that he was being watched, turned his face to look at John. What he saw in his partner’s eyes caused him to swallow hard. This man. This normally confident, courageous man was looking at Sherlock with eyes that conveyed self-consciousness and anxiety married with … worrying hope.

John hoped Sherlock wouldn’t look at him any differently in the future after witnessing the physical remnants of war. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t bestow pity on him. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t look upon him as an experiment. And, he hoped the scar wouldn’t prove to be a distraction during times of intimacy. John was playing every worry on a loop inside his mind, but that loop came to a screeching halt as John experienced what happened next.

Sherlock, while keeping his eyes on John’s face, raised his hand, and long, nimble fingers gently caressed John’s scar. “Thank you,” Sherlock said in a low, soft tone.

John’s face was one of astonishment and confusion. “I—” he breathed, “I don’t understand.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock repeated, “for your service.”

John let out a breath as he fought the lump in his throat that was making a repeat appearance.

Sherlock then moved his fingers up and across John’s collarbone.

“Thank you,” he continued, “for your trust.”

John’s vision blurred with tears.

“And, thank you,” Sherlock concluded as he placed his hand softly on John’s cheek, “for your love.”

Then, John felt Sherlock’s lips and tongue begin to lap up the salty streams of tears that were trickling down John’s face. He grasped Sherlock and clung to him as the detective continued to place soft kisses all over his cheeks and neck.

“Oh, my love,” John finally whispered.

Their mouths found each other again and long, deep kisses, one after the other ensued as John’s hands began their own quest to divest Sherlock of his clothing. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to panic.

When he had returned after being gone for two years, Sherlock hadn’t been completely open with John about what happened to him during his time away and John didn’t press for information at the time. But in that moment, as John’s fingers popped open button after button down the front of Sherlock’s shirt, the detective knew that in mere seconds the consequences of those two years would be revealed in a very tragic way on the skin of his back. The front of the shirt opened like curtains on a stage and John pulled them back to take in the pale, expanse of flesh and muscles before him. He ran his hands softly over Sherlock’s chest and stomach, and stopped when he came to the healed bullet wound that Mary had left in her wake. John smoothed over it with his thumb and Sherlock momentarily lost his breath. John then finished off the final buttons, pushed the sleeves of Sherlock’s shirt down and away from his arms and pulled the younger man closer. He began running his hands all over Sherlock’s back as he kissed the detective’s soft, full lips.

Sherlock waited for John’s inevitable realization, but none came. He waited for the rubbing to stop. But it didn’t. He waited for the kissing to be replaced by an audible gasp. But, there was none to be heard. John continued to bestow kisses and touches lovingly upon Sherlock until suddenly, the detective pulled away and looked seriously at his partner. Startled, John looked at his friend tentatively.

“You knew,” Sherlock stated as he stared at John.

Knowing it was useless to feign ignorance, John stared back, biting his lower lip. “Yes,” he replied.

“You saw. At hospital. When Ma-” Sherlock cleared his throat. “… when I was shot,” he continued.

“Yes,” John conceded. “It just naturally happened as they were working on you. I swear. I didn’t mean to, it’s just—”

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Sherlock questioned.

“It wasn’t my place,” John spoke softly and averted his eyes. “I didn’t feel like I had the right.”

John felt terrible. _Should he have told Sherlock that he knew? What was the right thing to do?_ He had agonized for weeks over the discovery as Sherlock lay in hospital recovering from the bullet wound that John’s wife had created. Guilt. Anger. Sadness. The emotions had surfaced and resurfaced inside of John on several occasions since then, but each time there was some “reason” he justified to continue burying them. However, this time emotion overpowered reason.

Sherlock had so much information to process that he was at a complete loss as to how to respond. He continued looking at John, waiting for some sort of cue. And then it came.

“But, Sherlock,” John gasped as he looked up with anxiety-filled eyes.

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock responded quickly.

“No, it’s not okay!” John answered loudly. “I didn’t know. In all that time from when you came back until you got shot … I didn’t know! I blamed you, I—“

“Stop,” Sherlock interrupted. He grasped John’s left hand and began stroking it. “Just … stop. I won’t have you feeling guilty because you didn’t know.”

“But I was so angry when you came back,” the doctor confessed.

“And you had every right to feel that way,” answered the detective.

John shook his head sorrowfully, “No. No, Sherlock. I saw the scars. The horrors you must have faced. You sacrificed so much in those two years!”

Sherlock interrupted John’s speech as he grabbed his best friend’s face with both hands and looked directly and intently into his eyes. “So did you.”

John barely stifled a sob that nearly escaped. “Please forgive me for not knowing,” he choked.

Sherlock softly pleaded, “Please forgive me for leaving you the way I did.”

The two men stared into one another’s red-rimmed eyes and what passed between them was deeper than any words that could have ever been spoken—forgiveness. Both of them asked for it and both of them gave it to the other. But more than that, each of them knew that from that moment forward, the past was in the past and there was total and mutual absolution--a cleansing that freed them both to live completely … and love fully.

John lunged forward and kissed Sherlock firmly on the mouth. The younger man responded in kind and the two of them began passionately “speaking” with lips, teeth and tongues. Suddenly, John pulled away, and what happened next, well, it would stay burned in Sherlock’s mind forever.

John brought his own palm up to his mouth and placed a small kiss on his fingers. “This,” he said, as he reached around and touched his palm gently to the center of Sherlock’s back, “is for those scars.”

Then the former army doctor, and consummate healer, leaned forward. “And this,” he said, as he gently put his lips on Sherlock’s chest, and placed a small, intimate kiss right over his heart, “is for all the other scars.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock tilted his head slightly bewildered.

John answered, “Not all scars are external, my love.”

Sherlock was caught in a rush of emotion. John knew and understood. John knew the pain and scars of Sherlock’s past—the teasing, the bullying, the abuse. He knew Sherlock’s nightmarish descent into and resurrection from the infernal pit of drug addiction. He knew the isolation of his childhood and the loneliness of his adulthood. He knew the mental and emotional scars Sherlock had suffered in the last few years. John knew and understood it all because John knew and understood Sherlock.

Before he could say another word, John found himself on his back, pressed firmly into the mattress with Sherlock’s lanky body enshrouding him. Sherlock cradled John’s head in his hands, like it was the most treasured thing in the world, and his mouth dove for John’s, as the deepest love and passion overtook him. Tongues battled like swordsman parrying and lunging without sign of retreat.

Both men grappled and groped and finally freed each other of their remaining clothing. Mouths kissed and hands grabbed among intermittent grunts and gasps as their erections swelled between them. John, who realized at that rate they’d both be spent within a few minutes, reached down with his left hand and grasped both of their cocks.

“Uuuhhhh,” cried Sherlock as he threw his head back in surprise, releasing his mouth from John’s.

This only affirmed John’s plan and he pulled his hand upward, slowing the activity and eliciting another incoherent sound from Sherlock’s lips.

“Mmmm,” John replied, eyes shut as if in meditation.

Sherlock’s lips once again found John’s and he reached down with his right hand and joined with his lover’s. The momentum shifted then as the two of them formed a slower rhythm pulling together firmly up their lengths until they reached the moisture-laden tips … then pushing back down, pressing into hairy nests at the roots of their shafts. Up … and down. It was slow … and sensual.

“Sherlock,” John mumbled between kisses.

“Hmmm,” the younger man sighed.

Their hands continued slowly pumping as their lips brushed and they spoke into each other’s mouths.

“I … Oh, Sherlock … I don’t want to--mmmm … do it like this.”

“How do you … Jesus, John … want to do it?”

“I … I want you … inside me.”

Sherlock stopped abruptly and pulled back slightly, peering into John’s face as the older man writhed with the sudden loss of stroking. Sherlock’s eyes were jet black and unblinking. John forced himself not to smirk as he realized that one of the gears in Sherlock’s big, beautiful brain must have jumped off the track for a moment. Sherlock blinked and John knew he was back.

“Say that again,” Sherlock dared, as his voice rumbled one octave lower in his chest.

John’s response would have made Pavlov proud. His lust-filled eyes lowered as his hips bucked slightly upward and he slowly drawled out, “I … want you … inside me.”

Sherlock’s heart pounded sending pulsing waves throughout his body. _This was it._ The moment he had thought about, dreamed about, tucked away on several occasions, tried to delete, buried and finally resurrected. There was only one difference between the dream in Sherlock’s mind and the reality of the current situation.

“Are you sure you want me … to … _lead_?” Sherlock tentatively asked.

It wasn’t as if Sherlock didn’t know what to do; this was just … unexpected. Every time Sherlock had allowed his mind to imagine this moment, John was always “in charge.” He’d imagined John’s strong, firm body positioned perfectly above his, stroking into him as Sherlock writhed and bucked beneath John on the mattress … sofa … desk … kitchen table. … He just assumed that Captain Watson would naturally fall into taking command of the proceedings and Sherlock was quite fine with that arrangement.

John giggled as he lovingly looked at Sherlock, who hovered over him in puzzled wonder. John spoke, “Answer me this, my love. Have you or have you not researched what to do, how to do it, how to make your partner comfortable, how to make your partner scream in ecstasy, the perfect condoms to buy and how much lube to use?”

Sherlock’s facial expression went from astonished to affronted. “The internet can be very useful, John,” he huffed.

John pulled Sherlock’s face closer to his and practically growled, “Then show me your research, Mr. Holmes.”

“Anything, John,” Sherlock breathlessly answered. “Anything.”

John was still looking intensely at his partner, which caused the detective’s brain to momentarily fog up, but then Sherlock leaned over and opened the drawer to his bedside table, pulling a condom and lube from it.

“Sherlock, wait,” said John.

Sherlock dropped the items, sat back on his heels and looked at John intently. His mind was swirling. _He’s changed his mind. I knew it. He wants to go slower. No, wait. Maybe he doesn’t want this at all. That’s it. He’s changed his mind and he thinks this is a mistake._

John pushed himself up to lean on his elbows. His demeanor had changed to one of uncertainty. “I was thinking …”

Sherlock held his breath.

“Sherlock?” John sat up properly and grabbed both of Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock blinked and looked at John.

“Where did you go just now?” John asked.

“Nowhere. It’s nothing,” Sherlock responded, letting out a shallow breath. “You were saying?”

Sherlock mentally braced himself as if a hurricane was on the horizon and he was strapped to a tree.

John continued, “Well, it’s just that … I was tested after Mary and I separated, and I’m clean. And, I was just wondering if you’ve been tested lately. … um, because if so, then, well, I was wondering—”

Sherlock’s brain felt like it just crashed into a brick wall. As if on autopilot, he interrupted, “After Magnusson. I was tested after the business with Magnusson.”

“Oh,” said John, feeling relief and joy at the same time. “I see. Good. That's good. Uh, well, if we’re both clean, then it means that … you know … we wouldn’t have to use a condom. I mean, that’s if you don’t want to. But I want you to feel comfortable, so—”

“I don’t want to wear one,” Sherlock responded anxiously, interrupting John yet again.

“Are you sure?” said John.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure,” replied Sherlock eagerly.

John was staring at his partner with concern. “Sherlock, what’s going on in that mind of yours? Tell me. Please?”

Sherlock looked down at their hands. He was embarrassed that he had even had those crazy, insecure thoughts. “I thought maybe you had changed your mind.”

He looked up at John like a child waiting for a scolding.

John leaned forward and his lips ghosted over Sherlock’s. “Never. It’s just that when I give myself to you, I want to feel all of you inside me.”

In his entire life, Sherlock had never been so thankful to be sitting down, because if he would have been standing at that moment he’s pretty sure his legs would have failed him.

John grabbed the lube from where it had been hastily placed on the duvet and placed a generous amount into Sherlock’s hand. He then squeezed some onto his own hand, discarded the tube and looked at Sherlock hungrily. John reached down with his lubed-up hand and began rubbing it slowly along and all over Sherlock’s cock. The younger man’s arousal became quickly apparent and he tilted his head back slightly to let John kiss and suck on his neck.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed.

John chuckled and broke away, wiping his hand hastily on the duvet. He laid down on the bed and placed a pillow under himself, bent his knees and spread himself fully, looking lustfully at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s breathing was scattered at best as he allowed himself to take in the magnificent man before him. He worked the lube in his own hand so that it was coating his fingers then leaned down and placed the tip of his index finger at John’s entrance. He caressed the opening then pushed in to the first knuckle. John felt a slight burning and sucked in a breath but continued to look at Sherlock through heavy eyelids. Sherlock prodded one finger, then eventually two, then three, gently stretching John’s opening wider and wider. As his fingers continued to work on his lover, Sherlock couldn’t help himself and bent down to take a lick of John’s cock.

“Ohhh, Christ,” John gasped.

Sherlock wrapped his lips around John’s thick shaft and began to gently suck the tip of it. Slowly, he swirled his tongue and John’s hips began to twitch slightly.

“Stop, Sherlock,” John pleaded. “I won’t last like this.”

Sherlock removed his mouth and took in the sight of John writhing on the bed, hands grasping at the duvet, eyes closed. Sherlock stopped prodding, gave himself a final stroke with his lubed hand, and positioned himself to enter John. He paused momentarily to look at his friend, his lover. He wanted John with every fiber of his being.

John was absolutely desperate with want. “I need to feel you _now_ ,” he begged. “Please, Sherlock. For me.”

Sherlock was always hopeless to resist when John’s eyes met his and the words “for me” were spoken from his lips. Sherlock pushed his throbbing cock slowly and meticulously, just a few centimeters into John. He took in every sensation that was immediately coursing through his body and was keenly aware of every reaction his partner was having. John felt a burning sensation, but he’d been through much worse in his life. And besides, he knew what the final prize would be and he wasn’t about to let a slight discomfort stop him from claiming it.

Sherlock then pulled back and out and both men released quick breaths. The younger man continued pushing in and pulling back, each time going a bit deeper … giving a little more … taking a little more … and stretching his partner wider. John could feel himself opening up, receiving Sherlock more easily, and with each push gave his lover breathless encouragement. Finally, Sherlock groaned as he pushed inside as deep as he could, eliciting a responding groan from the man beneath him. A sharp shiver made its way down both of their spines as Sherlock pulled back slightly and pushed forward again, completely engulfed by John, who emitted a louder, lengthier groan.

Sherlock could feel his own cock mercilessly throbbing inside its new home, and he wanted to go deeper. He had to go deeper. But he physically couldn’t. He was already pressed hard against John.

“Oh, God, Sherlock” John gasped. “You feel so good.”

“I want to go deeper,” Sherlock panted.

“I know,” John breathed. “I want you to.”

Even though Sherlock knew it was physically impossible to go any deeper inside John, his brain was at a point where logic was out the window. John wanted him to go deeper, so he was going to try. He pulled back and plunged forward a little more forcefully. But this time, John’s body also pushed boldly to meet his. Like continual waves hitting a coastline, surges of want and need crashed between them as beads of sweat, like raindrops, ran down their bodies.

Forward … Sherlock pumped into John … and back.

Forward … John’s body leapt to meet Sherlock’s ... and back.

Forward … moans of pleasure echoed around the room … and back.

Forward … John yelped and Sherlock froze.

But, John’s face was one of bliss as he choked out, “Oh, yeah. That’s the spot.”

Sherlock then realized what happened and was determined to make John cry out that same way again. He thrust forward deeply, hitting the response-provoking organ, and held for a moment. A slew of words came tumbling from John’s mouth. “Ohhh, Christ, Sherlock … yes, more!”

Sherlock was becoming drunk on power at causing such a reaction in John. And John was enjoying the moment. So, Sherlock pumped precisely into him again. “Aaaahhh … you mad man … you brilliant, mad man,” came John’s response.

John grasped his own cock and began to stroke it, but something, or rather _someone_ , clamped John’s hand and lifted it near the side of his head. John’s eyes shot wide open to see the predatory expression on Sherlock’s face. The detective had turned the tables momentarily and was on the hunt. The thought of being Sherlock’s prey was intensely stimulating, motivating John to retaliate. Before Sherlock could grasp John’s cock with his other hand, John boldly grabbed Sherlock’s free hand and lifted it along with his own hand up toward the top of the bed, so now both of John’s hands and both of Sherlock’s were grasped together tightly, fingers entwined on the pillow. Totally encaged by limbs, John silently looked at his lover with dark, determined eyes. _Captain_ Watson knew exactly what he was doing.

The sexual fog that was permeating the room was causing a delayed reaction in Sherlock’s brain, but when the synapses resumed their firing, he realized what John planned to do, and it shook Sherlock to the core. He looked at his partner and spoke in an astonished whisper. “You trust me.” It was a question, a statement and an exclamation.

John squeezed Sherlock’s hands and replied with a steady, sure voice, “I trust _us_.”

Sherlock’s entire body clenched as he felt an adrenaline spike like he’d never felt before. He plunged forcefully into John causing his partner’s hips to convulse violently in response.

“Aaahhh, Sherlock … yes! …”

Sherlock began to thrust quickly and repeatedly, completely engorged now, on the edge of release.

“Come for me, John!”

“Come inside me, Sherlock!”

Their white-knuckled hands gripped each other as they hung on for dear life.

“Yes … feel it, John!”

“Close … Sherlock, close!”

“ _My_ John!”

“Always!”

A final, primal shout of each other’s names accompanied the orgasmic crescendo. A stream of white, milky liquid flowed onto John’s stomach as Sherlock released a warm, twin stream inside him. More streams pumped forth as their bodies spasmed together and they simultaneously released their hands to hold each other through the aftershocks. For John there was a loss of consciousness, like being in a twilight state. For Sherlock, it was similar to a feeling he’d experienced previously, when the cocaine had kicked in. But this time there was an unexplainable joy and peace that surrounded it, which he found to be more addictive than any drug ever was.

As their bodies began to settle and the haze began to clear, John’s mind replayed the moment when he could feel Sherlock washing through him. He felt marked, but not controlled. John knew that this amazing man wanted him … needed him … chose him … and loved him. He was Sherlock’s. And he always would be.

John peeked down at the mass of black, curly hair that was touching his chin and began to run his fingers through it. He could feel the weight of Sherlock’s collapsed body on top of him, Sherlock’s hot breath on his chest and the beating of Sherlock’s heart with his own. John was loathe to move, but he knew sleep would be settling in quickly and the practical side of him would rather do a quick clean-up now than have to deal with things later.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmph,” his partner responded.

“Get up, love. I need to clean us.”

“Comfortable,” came the murmur.

“I know,” John chuckled. “But if we stay this way, it won’t be long before we’re both _un_ comfortable, yeah?”

With a groan, Sherlock peeled off John and the doctor padded to the bathroom to clean himself. He then quickly returned with a wet, warm flannel and proceeded to lovingly clean his partner, who lay with one arm thrown over his eyes. With each wipe of the cloth, Sherlock let out an appreciative hum. Once John was satisfied, he threw the flannel somewhere in the vicinity of the discarded clothing and crawled under the sheets. Sherlock joined him and the two of them lay face to face on the pillows staring at each other.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock stated. His expression was determined and meaningful.

“I know,” John spoke decidedly, as his hand instinctively reached for Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you, too.”

The younger man’s eyes slowly closed and John knew that not even the great Sherlock Holmes could fend off sleep any longer. John smiled softly and shifted closer to his best friend. Sherlock reached out and pulled their bodies tightly together; John’s rugged face pressed against Sherlock’s smooth chest and the detective’s sharp chin rested gently atop golden-grey strands. Their bodies lay interwoven; their souls connected as one. It was warm and right.

And, as most of those in London were beginning their day, John and Sherlock were peacefully drifting off to sleep amidst dreams of love, cases, deductions, weddings and bees.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! After I posted my first work, I felt like there were more words to write, so I began this second work. (Plus, I just wanted to hang out a little longer with Sherlock and John.) I truly appreciate your support and hope this work brings a little smile to your world today.


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